


I admit it that I think about it sometimes

by switmikan74



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bokuto suffers - Freeform, Bokuto you little shit, Breaking Up & Making Up, I swear this will have a happy ending once I stopped crying over the pics, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Kenma is a good friend, M/M, Not Beta Read, Overthinking, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, We Die Like Men, kuroo is a Good Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24004990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/switmikan74/pseuds/switmikan74
Summary: They fall at the seams. It was a quiet sanding down—brittle shards falling apart like a sandcastle built too close to the sea. The gravity did all the work. They try to push up and up and up. But all the little things that built up accumulated into shackles to drag them both down.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji & Bokuto Koutarou, Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Bokuto Koutarou/Sakusa Kiyoomi (ended), Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio (slight)
Comments: 55
Kudos: 222





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. Okay. I promised that this would have a happy ending. I could see a scene for the bittersweet (?) ending. But I don’t know how to round it to that. My wretched hands are way out of control. Next thing I knew, it’s all angst. But I assure you, it would be Bokuto and Akaashi at the end. I hope. But hey, I tagged it. itsanunstabletagbutstillitagit
> 
> BUT FIRST BEFORE YOU READ: SEE THIS https://twitter.com/neroinkboi/status/1257015352036229120 TO FUEL YOUR ANGER AND ANGST
> 
> Age:  
> Akaashi: 24 years old. So like they’d been dating since Akaashi is 17—so like 7 years now.  
> Bokuto: 25 years old

* * *

_You clinged to my body like you wanted it forever_

_What a time, what a time, what a time_

* * *

They fall at the seams. It was a quiet sanding down—brittle shards falling apart like a sandcastle built too close to the sea. The gravity did all the work. They try to push up and up and up. But all the little things that built up accumulated into shackles to drag them both down.

Akaashi tried to make sense about it. He was the calm and collected one. He was supposed to logic their troubles out—straighten any creases that try to fold into their relationship, pick the choices so he could handle the worries that increase as years go by, be the one to take the reign in their relationship so Bokuto would not be distracted with his career.

He tried to trace everything, to remember even the tiniest mistake, to read even the footnotes of their relationship. But his head came to a blank. He thinks it has got to do with the suffocating feeling that ballooned in his chest. He tries to clear his mind—to make sense. The shaking of his hands and the tears falling from his eyes were not helping him.

He tried to keep it together. He needed to keep it together. He was –he was the calm and collected one—he can do this—he can—Bokuto just have to—he just have to—think, Akaashi, think!

Akaashi folded.

“You can just say that it’s a mistake.” He poured so much into their relationship, sacrificed so many things. It can’t end just like this. It _cannot_. He attempted to smile but the cracked suppressed sobs escaped him. He might look ugly in front of Bokuto now. He wipes his tears desperately, only resulting in reddening his eyes and cheeks. “You can just say that it’s because you were drunk that it happened. You can just say that it’s out of adrenaline because you won a match. You can just say anything—anything—”

“It wasn’t a mistake.” Anything but that. He closes his eyes. The balloon pops and all he could focus on is the numbness seeping in him suddenly. He doesn’t suppress his sobs anymore. He trembles, he suddenly felt too cold in their warm apartment, “You could lie, Koutarou. You could say it was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t.” The honesty pervading the reply snaps something in him. The numbness boils into a fury that burns everything. He shatters in the ugliest of ways, swords pointed at both their neck, “WHY CAN’T IT BE A MISTAKE?”

He screams, clutching his hair. He slumps against the wall, bumping into the frame holding a picture of them both. The photo was taken just a year ago. It was a beautiful one, he thinks. Bokuto’s eyes shone like beautiful gold rings, silhouette showing so much strength, arms wrapped around him in a protective embrace. The thing that he likes the most about it is that it captured the love gleaming in both their eyes. It was wonderful—too wonderful. He breaks. Clawing at the picture, he frustratedly threw it on the floor, barely reaching his lover’s feet.

“Why couldn’t you just lie? I gave you an out!” He yells, tears dotting his cheeks in angry silver lines. He grabs the next photo frame and he almost laughs at the memory that intrudes. He shrieks in fury, thrashing the photo they took the first time they moved in. That day, too, was perfect—awfully perfect. Who would have thought that Bokuto’s promise of forever that day would end here?

“I’m sorry.” Bokuto’s repeated apologies knock the wind out of him. He grabs another frame—one that is taken on their first date in high school. He stares at it blankly. “It’s my fault… I—I’m sorry. Sakusa… Sakusa was just so beautiful—I… I couldn’t help myself. We—we were growing too distant. We—spent too little time. And… and Sakusa was there. I liked him. I like him.”

The sound of broken glass was followed by a wrecked wail. Akaashi’s eyes were blurry—he can’t even see Bokuto clearly. He followed his wail with a wretched laugh. _Too little time?_

“Whose fault was it?!” He points out. Every time he organized their date, it coincided with their practices. He always tries to work their relationship around his stupid schedule—always sacrificing his rest days so he could be with him. He works overtime so he could take as many vacations as he could. Everything about his life was scheduled and patterned around Bokuto and his life. He dedicated himself for him every single day. And what does he get? **_This_**.

He made sure to articulate all of those in the angriest worded sentence he could muster. He felt robbed—abandoned. He looks at the photo he holds, and he cries.

“I love you.” He says without abandon, “I love you so much, Koutarou. The first time—the first time I saw you all those years ago, I thought you were shining like a star. I never have deep feelings. I do my life like a routine. When I saw you play, I thought to myself that this person is so amazing. You lit a fire in me that made me love so many things. I love you so much for that. And then I love you even more.”

Memories littered their apartment. Bokuto suggested to put a lot of pictures because he is the sentimental one between the two of them. The pictures made him so happy every time he entered their home. Now, in this very moment, the walls shadowed and every surface with their memories atop crumbles.

“Every day with you was so beautiful. I had sworn a long time ago that I’ll do everything to make this last, to protect everything about us.” He was seventeen then, his lips robbed of its first kiss one autumn day, his chest filled with happiness and the painful throbbing of his heart, overwhelmed by the amount of his own affection, “I wanted to be a writer. But I thought to myself that I have to be more practical—what if being a writer doesn’t pan out for me? How would I support you then? So, I settled being an editor in sports magazine. At least, I get a steady salary and I saved every single penny of it. That way, when you retire from volleyball, we could also use that to retire peacefully in the countryside without a worry anymore.”

He imagined their life until they were both in tombs. He had so much hope for them. Bokuto has never been the type to cheat. When did he change? Was he too focused on their future together that he made a mistake? Did Bokuto really change as he pursues his career more and more? Was it his fault? Has he really been too distant? Has he neglected him? Was he the one who pushed Bokuto into Sakusa’s arms? Was he not enough?

“When I come home, I would wait for you. I would prepare dinner, set two plates. At first, you do come home as often as you could. And then you got busier as your team grew stronger. And it’s okay. I understand. I love you, after all.” Akaashi smiles sadly, “I still prepare dinner for two. When you call that you can’t come home, I’ll pretend that I’m still out so it won’t dampen your mood that I wasted effort. I know how easily your mood is affected, especially when you worry. All those times I tell you that I was with my coworkers, I was actually sitting here. I would watch your old matches instead. I feel safer here. Because this is our home. And I know—I know that you would come home.”

“So how?” He adds pitifully, “How could you throw me away just like that?”

Gunmetal eyes melted into silver drops. The whirlwind of emotions he felt exhausted him. He felt defeated—like a page turning but realizing that it was the last chapter of the book, like accidentally spilling wine on a perfectly white dress shirt and knowing it would be unusable to wear anymore, like the delicate fizzling of a flame before it dies out.

“Keiji, I—” He flinches away from Bokuto’s arms, curling in a protective and defensive embrace of his own. He muffles his sobs with the back of his hand, the photo he was holding shattering at his feet. He keels into a sit, his other hand clawing at his chest, frantic in releasing the heaviness from it.

“Don’t.” He whispers brokenly, “Don’t touch me. Just… just wait for me to collect myself… I’ll get out of your way… I promise. I promise.”

“You don’t have to.” Bokuto’s voice finally trembles. He shakes his head, eyes shutting, “I’m sor—I’m sorry. I just… I just need a minute. I just… I just have to… I just have to…”

Yes, he was the calm and collected one. He was supposed to logic their troubles out—straighten any creases that try to fold into their relationship, pick the choices so he could handle the worries that increase as years go by, be the one to take the reign in their relationship so Bokuto would not be distracted with his career.

What Bokuto doesn’t need now when his career is just starting to take flight higher and higher is someone holding him back. He couldn’t do that to him. He loves him too much to be the source of distraction.

It destroys him how he has to let himself out of Bokuto’s life to keep him happy.

Two hours later, after much struggling from Bokuto’s insistent of his stay, he was out in the street. He thanked the driver for driving fast to shake Bokuto off their tail. He doesn’t know where he was. He just kept on walking with the small suitcase he brought with him. Soon, the moon shines overhead, the stars dimly scattered throughout the sky. His phone has been buzzing for some time now but he ignores them all.

After a while, he finds himself in a lonely park. Before he could stop himself, his tears broke down his lovely cheeks once more. He yells and yells and yells. The pain does not get any less excruciating. And—even after all that, when he exhausted his voice, when the energy simmers down, he found himself still breaking apart.

* * *

“So, he’s really gone?” Kuroo’s voice was unkind, clipped with the traces of disgust. He doesn’t sugarcoat his expression. He coldly looks at Bokuto’s crumpled form on the ground, clutching an empty bottle whilst two more rolls by his side.

“How can you be so stupid, Bokuto?” The latter groans at the loud voice calling him out, “Six years, was it? Ah, no. Seven. You two dated for seven years and you traded it for a single fuck? The fuck is that?”

“It wasn’t a—wasn’t a mistake.” Bokuto slurs. Kuroo kicks his lying form with a restrained strength, “Of course, it is, you shitwad. It is a mistake. It will always be a mistake. Was that Sakusa so good at fucking that you had gotten even more stupid? Fuck, Bokuto.”

“I… I like him…” Bokuto’s voice was quiet like a scared little child waking up from a recent nightmare. Kuroo doesn’t waste around, grabbing his friend’s face harshly, “You like that he was with you more. You like that he is really strong in the court—making you feel like you are invincible. You like that he is somehow docile with you. You like the shallowest of things with people, sometimes. I don’t even know why Akaashi kept you around. I don’t know if you just suddenly forgot because you’re very well off your career but Akaashi has always been there for you.”

Every word prickles his skin, taunting and mocking him. He collapses even more. He hauls an arm against his eyes and laughs. Kuroo almost kicks him again but his reply stops him in his track.

“When he told me his days waiting for me, I know. Kuroo, I know I fucked up. I was over my head thinking that he was at fault for having our relationship gets cold. Keiji painted himself to be a workaholic, spending so much time with his coworkers. But he was lying.” He finally sobs, “He was waiting here for me to come home every single day like he promised. Then I got swept up with misplaced emotions and poured it to Sakusa. He just… he just reminds me somehow of Keiji. Then I began comparing. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I compared too low. I thought I matured but fuck!”

He slams the bottle he is holding with his other hand to the floor with enough force to break the bottom. He felt too cold—drained of all the lies he built up, only to be toppled down with a blow of the wind.

“And I shoved it on his face. Like a fucking monster.”

He does not expect any comfort and they never came. Not from Kuroo or from any of his friends. He settled his problem with Sakusa and they both agree that it was a fluke. Bokuto knew that he did like Sakusa—but he pressed those feelings out. It had bitten him too much to even look at it now.

He returns to his apartment as often as he could, hoping that Akaashi would be there. But days turns to weeks and weeks to months. In a blink, he had lived a full year without Akaashi. Still, he doesn't stop searching.

-to be continued, I guess-


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bokuto starts, reaching out to Akaashi—the universe at his fingertips, only to crumble away. Illusion flitting wayward. Midnight, the world is asleep, he walks out their little haven. In no time, he finds himself at a park. The snow falls and so does he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contrary to how I write Bokuto, I actually love him very much. He is my baby. But Akaashi is life and I can never depict him as anything but precious. I do love them both. I am just cursed with Angst-syndrome as a writer.
> 
> I toned down the angst, I guess. (?)

* * *

So, before you go  
Was there something I could've said to make it all stop hurting?  
It kills me how your mind can make you feel so worthless

* * *

Akaashi thinks that he could have handled the situation better. He had pictured it many times.

Perhaps, if he was the boy he used to be, remotely detached with emotions and overly inclined to using logic, he would have quietly retreated without a fuss. The scene of Bokuto coming out their team dorm with Sakusa, eyes shining with a familiar gleam he swore has been sent to him consistently, would have not broken him as much.

Silently, he would have disappeared like a fading smell of used sheets. He would have probably left with not many words, kept every word deep in the crevice of his worn-out chest. In his illusions, he was strong. He ends it in the most peaceful way without breaking them both.

Quietly—barely a whisper, written in weak ink, the thought crosses— _when did he become so weak?_

But, he supposes, love could change someone. It isn’t necessarily a good or a bad change. It has always been subjective. A point of view fueled by diluted perspective that stemmed from the stuttering of the heart. There’s something about love that is poisonous and a cure all the same. A double-edge sword ready to thrust into both party without a word. Something deadly. Something full of life. Something beautiful and ugly at the same time.

Love. What a ridiculous thing it is.

Sometime ago, after picking his pitiful self from the lonesome park, he found himself at train stations. The train took him farther and farther away in an aimless goal of distance. His breath is still caught in his chest, eyes still shedding like a waterfall, and he honestly wanted to go back—back to their little apartment, to their little world; perhaps they could just forget about it.

He doesn’t turn back.

And perhaps, he’s still strong in the softest most vulnerable of ways.

* * *

The quiet room was old. The bedsheets had yellowed, pillows almost deflated, blanket ratty. He cannot afford any more than the rickety shoddy hotel with no dime to his name. He is cornered in the farthest of place—suddenly his preferred silence has become a mocking leech, his pain the source of its life.

He let his mind wander into a peaceful time. The path to the bygones is thorny. Dangerous. Awfully sad. It litters his skin with scratches, poking on the newly made wounds. Digging sharply. But then it came to a stop.

His lips curve in a small smile.

He remembers him in a rose-colored hue. A sentimental burn building within despite the coldness he felt. His Bokuto has been a constant source of warmth. Lessons learned in youthful ways. He has managed to completely ruin him for anyone else. He knows.

He remembers Bokuto’s murmurs against his ears. Words straight out of romance novel—and he felt giddy despite his frown. His reckless tirades of affection lulled him to sleep. He slept and woke up to the articulated love of Bokuto. Those days—what wonderful days they were.

He closes his eyes.

When did he stop? He couldn’t remember fully. Somewhere. Sometime. Those nights and days faded. Busier days replaced it. The absence a heavy reminder that hang in the air—flooding in as weeks and months go by.

_It’s my fault… I—I’m sorry. Sakusa… Sakusa was just so—_

_Beautiful_. He fills with a saddened loathing. _Beautiful_. He never really thought for a moment—never really imagined nor does he assumed that he was actually one. Bokuto always does his best to engrave the very compliment to his soul. Only to take it all back at that very moment—that very moment, clawing and evil, ringing in multitude of pitches.

And he _screams_. Hands suddenly finding themselves covering his ears. Body rigid—taut like an elongated string ready to break at any given second. He is all fragile sharp memories clouding into one fat mistake. He couldn’t help himself now when his mind just wants to destroy him too.

_I’m sorry._

He wilts. He deflates like a balloon hitting a sharp edge, single scar causing every air out of him. He is heaving—chasing the air that seems to elude him right now. He needs someone. Anyone. His hands shake as he fumbles with his phone. Eyes rattling through blurred names.

_It wasn’t a mistake._

“Help me.” His breath comes out short, throat clogging—the words barely a whisper. But the one who picked up the call catches it all the same.

* * *

Picture a young man, an older version of youth, skin kissed by the sun—flushed and smooth. Hair a phantom of silver and black, with dandelions for his eyes, shining, brilliant—a puff of honey dribbling ever so slightly with uncontained joy. They hid behind tired lids. Beside him, a man with raven hair. Beautiful. His eyes are painted in ephemeral hues of sky and seafoam, ever changing under the light. His fingers comb through silver tresses.

They are entangled under rustled sheets. They are twenty—the other a year older. Still—arms wrapped softly around one another. Early days of bliss. Winter, the world is asleep, both forgetting the outside in each other’s companion. Golden eyes crack open to meet sky eyes. The rainbow smile reflects one another. Quiet nights a safe haven. Older hands stretch—the universe at his fingertips. _His._

* * *

Bokuto wakes with a start. The autumn air has changed into winter. The world slowly fills with the whiteness the season brought. He is all but quiet, mellowed by the mistakes that chased him in the silence of their apartment.

The month is December—five days rounding. He rolls to Akaashi’s side, the scent has long faded. Every trace of the younger man seeping out. In the confines of their abandoned relationship, he whispers his greeting.

He takes a day off. He doesn’t bother answering phone calls, eyes only trained at the rather empty disposition of their room. He slips into the kitchen, researches how to make a cake, fails at his attempt at baking, and then finally decides to buy one instead.

The cake is a simple vanilla flavored one. The writing indicates the occasion. He puts it in the middle. The table is set up in a routine manner. Two plates. Two pair of utensils. Two glasses. The foods, all the favorite of the birthday celebrant.

He sings to cover the silence. The lonely pitiful ambiance does not change even with his loud singing. He keeps on this pathetic action until his voice is hoarse, until the candle melted away, until the dishes are all cold.

Much, much later, when the clock is ticking close to nine, the sky too dark, Kuroo visits him. He is without companion, side empty of the usual sight of Kenma. He greets him with his grin, the brightness lacking, superficial.

“Where’s Kenma?” Bokuto asks just to ask. Kuroo shrugs, carefully pulling another seat, the other empty side reminding him why he even came. “He’s in Kyoto. Something about business.”

He doesn’t continue the conversation. Kuroo sits in the quietness of his friend. He doesn’t disturb him, doesn’t try to sugarcoat a comfort. Bokuto would only self-destruct with it.

“It’s been two months since.” Bokuto says, “It’s the first time since I met him that we did not celebrate his birthday together. He turns twenty-four. I tried baking too. Even though he always tells me not to. In the end, I bought the cake from his favorite shop. Hey, Kuroo.”

Kuroo hums, attention on the muttering man.

“Do you know where he is?” Kuroo doesn’t reply for a second, mind whirring, before he huffs, “Even if I know, why would I tell you?”

There’s a lifeless titter that chases Kuroo’s answer. He has been getting that kind of reply from all their friends. He could only chuckle before he sets his eyes on the other empty side of the table.

Picture a young man, an older version of beauty—hair as raven as the night, soft in its messiness, with meadow eyes. He is all soft and lovely. Lips curve in waves of affection. Peacefully sitting where he is meant to be. Words flitter out his pink aperture, but it doesn’t reach the other side.

Bokuto starts, reaching out to Akaashi—the universe at his fingertips, only to crumble away. Illusion flitting wayward. Midnight, the world is asleep, he walks out their little haven. In no time, he finds himself at a park. The snow falls and so does he.

* * *

“He isn’t in his top shape.” The coffee has already turned cold, eyes repeatedly watching a replay of Bokuto’s game. Kenma pushes the off button, creating even more distance between the two, “He has been getting benched more and more, yeah.”

“Why?” Kenma looks at gunmetal eyes and flinches at the utter hope bleeding out. He could fan it—fuel the wish that positively oozes. But Akaashi is his friend. He doesn’t let his _want_ get the best of his hurt. So, instead, he replies, “He has gotten sick. Maybe, that is why.”

He doesn’t tell Akaashi of Bokuto’s recklessness. Drunk nights and careless days out in the rain—searching, searching. He doesn’t tell him of Bokuto’s fights, occurrences breeding from accidental illusion of Akaashi in another man’s arms. He doesn’t tell him of Bokuto’s weeping, hands clutching what little remembrances Akaashi left behind.

“Oh.” Before Akaashi could do anything else, Kenma adds, “Don’t call him.”

3AM, the world is asleep—he found himself in a phone booth. Numbers long memorized, he dials. And it rings. He breathes in—air suspended between the holes of his chest. The click of the other side awakens him even more, drunk groggy voice filtering through.

“Hello?”

He drops the call.

* * *

One year. One month. Three weeks. Two days.

They meet again.

-to be continued, I guess-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your support. Hope I did not disappoint. Gosh, my anxiety is on overdrive.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If sometimes, he wondered what it would be like to hear those confessions again, wondered if he had said it was a mistake then, wondered if he had not done the unthinkable, or wondered if he stayed even after all of those. The what if’s and the maybe’s, he touches them once in a while. He could be consumed by it if he let them—and he let them; used to let them overwhelm him into retching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually have to finish this because my work suddenly multiplied. Working from home is a pain, really. To be honest, I really like the 4th chapter. I took the liberty of incorporating something that I experienced. Because he was my first love and it pained me for months. But in the end, I came back to him. That's it. That's the whole story of love. Even with mistakes, you just don't let go of it immediately.
> 
> Honestly, I had enough of making my babies suffer in this series. :( I feel so guilty. I love making people cry with angst. But babies. :(

* * *

Monday left me broken  
Tuesday I was through with hoping  
Wednesday my empty arms were open  
Thursday waiting for love, waiting for love

* * *

One year. One month. Three weeks. Two days.

They meet again.

It wasn’t arranged or anything. It wasn’t a grand search coming to a peaceful end. It wasn’t something drawn by fate. An accident. Unplanned. A crossing that took them both by surprise—a stinging meeting all the same.

Akaashi has looked over the street, stare aimless. And then—by some colossal twist, he is met with canary eyes. He could chalk it up to mistaking for someone else’s. But. Those eyes—Bokuto’s eyes were something molded by golden weaves, unmistakable in its glory.

It’s weird to think that throughout the days he was alone, there were times when he imagines that this would be a nightmare instead. He thinks—assumes that the meeting would unravel him, unbearable in the face of first love, when now, as he is thrust into that faraway fear, he breathes much finer in contrary.

When the sign turns green, he crosses. He nods in polite greeting and sticks to his path. He doesn’t look back. Instead, even as he is walking away, he is pulled into a tight hug.

The name that rolls from Bokuto’s lips were desperate, drenched in a familiar coil of emotions that brewed in his own chest. He straightens his expression.

“Bokuto-san.” The first break, the first pull-away, his flat voice filling the pregnant silence that surrounds them. It shatters the meager hope Bokuto is holding unto so frantically. “Please let me go.”

Words meant nothing more than what it seems. But it screeches. It stinks of the possibilities Bokuto refuses to believe. He negates the sour taste that lingers. Even so, his arms were push away.

“Keiji, I—”

“Please don’t be so presumptuous with the way you address me.” Cutting sentence that tries to lock the past in an empty room, in the very back closet, yellowed in its disuse—it echoes. “I am merely your former teammate.”

He hears the voice like it was too far. He is casted back in time. Teenage years, volleyball games— _his tosses are always the best_ kind of feeling; nationals on a bench just after winning, Akaashi crying in worries, him on top of the world as he drags the younger man back up. There was not a time when he was _merely_.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Akaashi. I love you—I do. I still do.”

If sometimes, he wondered what it would be like to hear those confessions again, wondered if he had said it was a mistake then, wondered if he had not done the unthinkable, or wondered if he stayed even after all of those. The what if’s and the maybe’s, he touches them once in a while. He could be consumed by it if he let them—and he let them; used to let them overwhelm him into retching.

But the present has been very far from yesterday. Disillusioned adults losing their faith for love. So even if sometimes he wondered, and even at this very moment he wondered—Akaashi chose rejection, his empty arms that always longed for Bokuto drop by his side in a manner of farewell.

He left without answering more than a turn of his back.

* * *

The truth comes out from his whole being the moment he closes the door. In his room, in the farthest corner of his bed, lobbied against the wall, there is an undeniable weight pressing down in every fiber of his being.

He couldn’t—just couldn’t _breathe_.

The strength holding him together dissipates. The shock of seeing _him_ again after so many, many moons throws him back several steps away from the person he is _now_.

All too suddenly, he is back in their little apartment. Photos scatter, glass broken by their feet. He is shouting and shouting. Then silence. Pitiful hope seeps out like promises they meant to keep but couldn’t. All too suddenly, just like that.

They say time heals all wound—but this, _this_ is farthest from mending.

He unravels once more.

* * *

The traces of Akaashi began with their bed. Memories spent together litter the midnight sheet. The creases and the folds—every dip, every corner. Six years living together filling up the pillows and foam. It leads to the closet—half still reserved for when he comes back. The single t-shirt that was left behind hangs like a medal.

The living room is a museum of bygones. He lets his eyes wander to the younger’s favorite spot—the weathered green sofa they bought with the little allowance they had during university days. There are many a time when he goes back home, says his greeting, and imagines Akaashi turning from his comfortable position just to greet him back.

Akaashi’s books are safely tucked in the wooden shelf separating the kitchen and the living room. Some of them are scattered on the coffee table. Often, he opens them at the marked page; pretends it was used by Akaashi once more.

The trails led him to the memoirs hanging on the wall. Salvage photos from that time taped together, put to the most similar frames he could find.

Gifts exchanged peek innocently at the corner of his eyes. Owl-shaped mugs. Worn-out Mikasa ball. Thick cotton jacket. The remaining shoe of a lost pair. A small portrait of them both. And the golden ring Akaashi gave back.

He runs back to their bedroom, collects all his clothes, and stuffs them into an available suitcase. Then he pauses. Bokuto throws them to the floor, plops down, and imitates the way Akaashi would fold.

Kuroo found him an hour later with the last remaining clothes still strewn on the floor.

“What are you doing?” He hesitates before he answers, “I found him.”

His friend doesn’t bother asking _who_. Because there’s only one single person that he had been searching. He debated and debated after coming back from their training in Kyoto. All it took was one clue, one push.

“After trying so many times, I found him. Found where he works at. Found his address. Found where he spent his time—the library closest to his workplace.” Words vomit from his mouth, flooding the room. “But… but you know all that, right?”

Hazel eyes met melted dandelions. There were no cracks in their friendship. Bokuto does not hold any malice even as he is faced with Kuroo’s disgust. They stuck together. That’s that.

“I told you, even if I knew, I wouldn’t have told you.” The answer beneath clipped tone hang in the air. _Kenma_. As he had learnt from him, as does Bokuto. He grins, lips thinning, brightness as superficial as the day Akaashi left, “I’m grateful to Kenma. He had taken good care of Keiji. He looks healthy.”

 _Happy_ isn’t the word fitting to describe the younger person. A description he doesn’t want to use or admit yet. The thought just positively, positively kills him. His selfishness knows no bound, he knows.

“It took me a lot of time to wear down Kenma.” He admits, folding the last piece slowly, “He practically hisses at me. Then, like a miracle, he finally told me another piece of information. Work address, you know. From there, it’s enough to gather some data of Keiji.”

He closes the suitcase, “I’m going there.”

“Are you stupid?” Kuroo intervenes, “What do you hope in going there? To be met with open arms? Just because you dropped your life here in Tokyo? You can’t just barge in Akaashi’s life so suddenly again. He was a fucking mess. It took him sometime to even stop crying at the mention of your name. Don’t do this to him.”

 _Don’t ruin him again_ is what he means. _Don’t try to intrude too much if Akaashi refuses you from his life_ hangs in the space between them. _Don’t be selfish_ is the final blow.

“Do you think he still loves you?” The sentence rings a bell. He rummages in the shelf of his memory, a query tilted by time. Not long after, he finds its timely point, summer, drunken meltdown under stormy sky. He remembers his answer, consciously fiddling with his fingers, his whole being dipped in fear.

“I don’t know.” He deflates, “It would be a miracle. If he doesn’t, I hope that he still _can_.”

He likes the ring to it. _Can._ Despite the certainty that Akaashi might not love him anymore, the possibility is still there. That perhaps, one day, someday, he _can_. He will do anything really to get him back.

Kuroo doesn’t answer. If only, he muses, if only Bokuto did not throw it all away. He is afraid for his friend. The desperation and the sadness all coiling around his friend’s neck like a loose noose slowly tightening with every decision he makes. Bokuto’s love has been fairly straight to the point. But it wavers at the slightest doubt. Insecurities expertly hidden behind tight smiles. Akaashi—his security blanket.

Only then, once Akaashi left, did he realize that he is more than someone keeping him grounded, more than a safety net, more than a boundary keeping him from falling on the edge.

“Suit yourself.” Kuroo finally says, eyes looking at the January snow falling down outside.

* * *

It’s definitely wretched, he thinks; eyes roaming the slim back of Akaashi. He has gotten used to seeing him turn away, and although the pain doesn’t decrease with familiarity, he doesn’t make a single fuss.

It’s the fifth time since. The first was a quiet affair. The surprise look melted into an empty expression, void of blithe memories that once hold them together—the shutting of the door was an indication of boundary. The second was much quieter. Akaashi never looking at him, choosing to ignore his entire existence. Words were never exchange. The third and fourth were the same. With slight annoyance marring ever so lightly, lips thinning, before disappearing into the confines of his home.

If maybe, for a moment, he wondered what it would be like if he never committed his mistake, wondered if he told him it was a mistake then, wondered if could desist all the words he said that night, wondered if he could have saved their relationship at all…

If maybe, for a moment, he wondered if he could hold his hand again, tucked him in a protective embrace, love him the way he should be loved…

For an instant, everything flashes and blinds him, pain filling in, and the seconds stop ticking. He doesn’t wonder for more than a moment.

So, he watches Akaashi’s hand be held by someone else, watches the way his meadow eyes crinkle in the slightest sign of joy, watches how he looks so beautiful despite the shadow breaking through his quiet smile.

Love is a double-edge sword, a knife with no handle, but that is all he has, so he held it close with both his hands.

* * *

Akaashi felt disgusted. Skin red with the amount of force he rubs it. He frantically washes himself, eyes tearing, and he can feel himself retching. He never thought being held by someone else could be this appalling.

To love someone so much to the point he is ruined for other men—what a curse that was.

He doesn’t use another man again.

* * *

The February winter isn’t as kind as it used to be. He remembered warm cups of chocolate, thick cotton blanket, the warmth in that little apartment, arms wrapped with one another. Instead, he is waiting in an old worn-out jacket outside Akaashi’s apartment, hands getting colder by the minute.

He is holding Akaashi’s favorite food, a bouquet in his other hand. Purple hyacinths weren’t romantic at all. But he isn’t here to be romantic. Dawn breaks and he hears the creaking of the door. He sees groggy green eyes, sharpening by the second.

“Happy Valentines Day, Keiji.” He greets, a small smile on his face. Akaashi merely stares. For a moment, he is self-conscious. The stare heavy with polluted memories, a rejection reflecting in his eyes. Akaashi takes the food and the flowers.

He throws them in the garbage can beside his door.

He couldn’t help but laugh, a pitiful sound following the silhouette of the boy he hurt. At least this is _something_. He isn’t as non-existent as he was before. He ignores the voice that whispers of how awfully it is to know what love is and be denied, of how mistakes could rapture something so beautiful in a minute, of how he deserves every single moment of this.

He doesn’t leave even when Akaashi passes him by—doesn’t leave even as the sudden downpour clouds his view of the town; doesn’t leave even as he grows cold. He waits and waits and waits.

 _Hope._ What a disgusting thing it is.

* * *

There was something about love that left you hanging. Veterans often call it memories—stains too yellowed to wash away. But some would claim that there are blemishes that vanish as time progresses. It varies. Some love stays. Some don’t.

But,

There are love that lingers. A love that is work hard for—always waning and waxing, riding the tides of heartbeats. Swollen love weathered by mistake, recreated and redesigned.

Akaashi finds himself folding.

“What do you want from me?” He asks, because the sunsets have been fading in and out, the moon has wanes, seasons have changed, and Bokuto still waits for him.

There’s something inherently sad about them. White walls pigmented by time, a tiny hole eating away at the corner, edges frayed. He wonders if that’s really it for them—volleyball memories, summer days, warm kisses, hot nights; things so easily made with someone else but chose to cling unto each other. He wonders if they had a chance to fall back together, if they missed it somehow so they are desperately retracing their steps back—back to volleyball memories, summer days, warm kisses, hot nights, things that they defined as love for the last seven years spent together.

He sees the selfish request even before it was articulated. Yet, he hears him out anyway.

“Please,” Bokuto starts, knees on the ground, crying and crying, “I’m so sorry. I’d do anything—anything! Please, take me back.”

He reaches; and it is hot under his skin, fireworks exploding in his system—it has been so long since he is able to touch the man he dedicated most of his youth to. There is an undeniable crack in his defense, every affection he stored and hid in the furthest corner of his closet came flooding in. He is taken back to the days when he loves Bokuto and Bokuto only loves him.

“It isn’t that easy, Bokuto-san.” He smiles sadly, almost like he’ll disappear again and Bokuto reaches out, hands coated in the desperation they both felt.

“It was a mistake. It is.” Those were the words he hoped to hear that night. Bokuto cries, “I am sorry. For ever seeing him. For ever hurting you. I don’t—I don’t want to lose you anymore.”

Once upon a time, Akaashi would have never imagined that there would be a time where Bokuto would lose him. Life is a very funny thing.

* * *

If sometimes they wondered what it would be like if there were no mistakes at all, if Bokuto has never strayed away, if Akaashi has never run, wondered if they made it work that breaking night…

But they stopped wondering. Lost days would remain lost. The mistake already a notch in the annals of their history. An awful reminder how any moment, everything could fall apart. But _still_.

 _Still_.

Right?

-to be continued-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're now just friends though. My priorities changed. And I suddenly don't look at him the way I used to. It took me years to get the courage of admitting: maybe we're not meant to be.
> 
> Anyway, I'll upload the 4th chapter soon. I'll just reread it if I can still make it longer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They fall like jigsaw pieces. Finished puzzle thrown so carelessly on the floor—hands picking them back up after that moment of irresponsibility. They are scattered under the table, under the couch, under the farthest corner of a drawer; thousands of pieces to fit once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, it ends.

* * *

Bask in the glory  
Of all our problems  
'Cause we got the kind of love  
It takes to solve 'em

* * *

They fall like jigsaw pieces. Finished puzzle thrown so carelessly on the floor—hands picking them back up after that moment of irresponsibility. They are scattered under the table, under the couch, under the farthest corner of a drawer; thousands of pieces to fit once again.

It was anticlimactic—their getting back together. It wasn’t something out of a romantic novel, not as grand as hopeless romantics make them out to be. It was just normal.

One day, Akaashi just said yes. There is an exhaustion in his eyes. Bokuto felt it too. Like it was time. The chase is already taking its toll and they are just both so tired. The fallback of first love has never been this gray before. But they try to make it work.

If sometimes Akaashi would look at him with a distant stare, and he felt like he is going away once more, the traces of Sakusa’s touch being drawn out by the forlorn look of Akaashi, he stays up late at night just to ask for forgiveness. And he will beg every time he sees that look on his face. If it takes forever to be forgiven, then forever it is.

If sometimes Bokuto stays at the balcony of their apartment, cigarettes after cigarettes, the guilt eating him away, Akaashi waits for him by the couch; soon feeling helpless at the sudden multitudes of the older’s touches. He is as receptive to them as he was before. But whenever a part of him still clung to the backstory of the guilt and he pushes away, Bokuto would stop for him, and would linger just by his side, not touching but there.

Their room would be a witness to their growth.

It was different. Their second relationship. A reset, back to zero. Two young adults in their late twenties discovering what it felt like to return to things they once abandoned. Yet, the familiarity isn’t quite the same. _They don’t want it to be the same_. And it’s okay if it will never be _the same_. Because, in retrospect, _that normal was not good for them both_.

Akaashi does not make any lists nor plans. He doesn’t schedule his life around Bokuto’s. He doesn’t prepare dinner for two when Bokuto is late from work. (He doesn’t ask for more than what he could—even when Bokuto tells him he will quit volleyball just to appease him, he doesn’t ask to replace his dreams. _Because supposedly love doesn’t work that way._ )

Bokuto, on the other hand, is mellowed by his chance. He doesn’t take an extra hour of practice when it is Saturday. He doesn’t accept invitation dinner from his teammates. (He offers more than what is being asked for—even when Akaashi keeps his fear to himself. _Because supposedly love isn’t just about taking and taking_.)

Their glory days were over. Teenager years, volleyball days, summer kisses, hot nights, mistakes, broken glasses, lonely winter, and chasing—they are tucked carefully between the pages they write, bookmarked to keep them from forgetting. That it was never a fairytale that they hope it will be. Foolish university days ringing sadly behind them— _forever and a ring_ tying the memories together.

It will never be the same. Even when years and years pass them by, they would still think about it sometimes. And it will break them once in awhile. They will both get old with that single mistake marring their youthful days.

If sometimes they think it will fall apart again, they make do with the hand they had been dealt with. Because there was a time when, in the throes of hot emotions breeding from a mistake, Akaashi had wanted for Bokuto to tell him it was a mistake, to lie to him, because things have happened already and there was nothing he can do but plead—now, he is not so sure if he could have handled being lied to instead, didn’t want to imagine what life would be like if Bokuto did.

Because what if he had?

What if Bokuto folded to his pleadings, and he did not run away, choosing to ignore the biggest elephant in the room; always on edge every time Bokuto comes home late—further ripping them into unimaginable unamendable state.

How long could they have lasted then? With _that_ always hanging over their head like a guillotine? Another year? Two? Three? He doesn’t know. They would probably ruin each other so much—so, so much that they are both filled with loathing. Him, unable to fully trust Bokuto, forever trying to control him and hang his mistake over his head. Bokuto, cornered thoroughly by his insecurities and mistrust, his guilt delivering the final blow.

If Bokuto hadn’t known what life was without Akaashi—what life would it be for both of them? Would they have even tried hard enough? Or would they be stuck in an unhappy relationship, sticking together out of guilt and out of not knowing love outside the other? Would they have stayed because it was _safe?_ And would they have just turned the other cheek away when the same mistakes happen again—this time from both their end? They both don’t want to know the answer.

A life without each other—they knew of it already, suffered for it as sharply. Still, they are pulled to each other like how first love syndrome works. _They really tried hard this time around._

Maybe, in one lifetime, in another life, there were no mistakes made, no scars to mend, and they both were just so happily together—in love, hopelessly and irrevocably; like some characters in a sappy novel.

But, love is not easy like that. You have to work hard for it. And they did. Even when there are times Akaashi pulls away or Bokuto is consumed by the guilt of his blunder—even then, especially then, they make it work. Their love has evolved into entirely something else, founded on more adult things instead of summer kisses and teenage years.

They are founded on the silhouette of the mistake, on memories of separation, on forgiveness and atonement, on the maturity both gained apart and together, on autumn days and spring coming full circle, on the knowing spaces filled with lessons learned, and on disillusioned sense of first love.

It isn’t a better version or anything else.

But it was theirs. And it is _enough_.

-fin-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the supports! If I get a will once more to write and get inspired again, I'll definitely write BokuAka. HOWEVER, I don't want them to suffer. So I'll probably write KuroKen for that thing in my head.


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